The Wasteland Soldier, Book 1, A Fractured World

Twenty Nine

Shadows danced across the stony ground. The fire crackled and licked stumps of dry crumbly wood

The Cleric stared into the flames, watching them consume. His stab wound was a dull ache. Once clear of the soldiers, he had ordered his men to abandon the highway and make camp. He had washed the wound and burned it shut. He lightly fingered the rippled skin and felt shame at how it had scarred his beautiful body. He took some comfort at the life he had snuffed out but, once again, a deformed thing had escaped him, as at the town of Ford, and the Tongueless Man had been there both times. The man had killed his warriors and the Cleric would carry the burden of these failures. It was a shocking emotion, one he would carefully hide, for to reveal even a glimpse of weakness would risk losing the faith of his tribe.

He leaned towards the fire, wincing at the pain in his stomach, and sliced off a piece of meat.

"What is this?" he said, chewing.

"I don't know," shrugged Rodrigo, letting out a burp. "It moved fast and had patchy fur."

"It is disgusting," said the Cleric, swallowing it down.

"I know," said Rodrigo, getting to his feet, yawning. He flexed his cramped arms and legs before taking blankets from the back of the pickup truck. He rolled several out for the Cleric and one for himself. He eased down onto his back and stared up at the black night sky.

"What are you doing, Rodrigo?" asked the Cleric, wiping his greasy lips with the back of his hand.

Rodrigo turned onto his side, propped himself up on one elbow, and blinked at the Cleric through the fire.

"I have driven all day, I am tired, Cleric. Javier is keeping watch. I was hoping for some sleep."

It was a statement, not a question, and the Cleric spat on the ground, and shook his head.

"I am not yet tired. My mind is full." He tapped the side of his head. "You will stay awake with me."

His thoughts continued to be clouded with disappointment, how he had besmirched the long oath he had taken as warlord of the tribe. Inside he yearned to be reunited with the rest of his people. He thought of the wrecked vehicles he had seen on the highway, more of his brave warriors lying dead, a failed ambush of the Tongueless Man. He was acutely aware the black energy was running low and he feared exhausting it and leaving his people stranded so far from home. His heart cried for Bann, his woman, and Ramon, his most trusted of commanders, both dead in that rotten town.

Yet he had no interest in discussing any of this with Rodrigo, a common warrior. What truly pinched his skin and chilled his flesh was not the icy wind, but the dark of the night, and it was gripping him with more urgency than ever before. He needed his tent and more fires and more warriors. He felt something crawling behind him, turned sharply and saw nothing but blackness.

"I have a joke," said Rodrigo, sitting cross legged on his blanket.

"A what?"

"A joke, you know. I want to share a joke."

"With me?" frowned the Cleric. "You want to tell me a joke?"

"I want to raise your spirit, Cleric," he said. "A joke can make you feel good for a short moment."

His words came out staccato. Before today, he was another face in the tribe. Now, here he was, at a campfire with the mighty warlord of the Blood Sun. He felt privileged, elevated, honoured.

"You want to cheer me up?" said the Cleric.

"I won't tell it, if you don't like jokes."

"I like jokes. Tell it."